Betrothed

Well. A Direct Sequel to Proposal. Is strange. I have been writing lots of Squee of late... Not like me at all...
I suspect my subconcious is subtly trying to tell me something. I think it should lose the subtlety. Anyway...
Intellectual property of me, Jared G. Juckiewicz. Meaning, I hold the copyright.
Not really any warnings to be made.

As I wake, I realise there is something different. Something new. Nothing has changed from when I went to sleep. The glade is the same, the soft moss beneath me, the woolen blanket above. Vixen is still beside me, curled up against me. That hasn't changed. Such a pleasure to awaken besides my betrothed. That. That is the difference. See, I proposed last night, over a dinner of fresh hare. And mine lady accepted. Carefully, I roll back, away from her, and prop myself up against a tree, sitting and watching her sleep. She looks so peaceful. It makes a pleasant change. She begins to stir, rolling over and feeling for me.

When she doesn't find me, she bolts up to one knee, instantly awake, glancing about. Her gaze settles on me, and she relaxes. She gives me a look so full of love and affection it makes me melt. It is several minutes before either of us is willing to speak. "Breakfast, My love?" I ask her, and she nods. I hadn't brought food for breakfast, but the brook is full of trout. We shift, and a moment later a large wolf stands aside a large red fox on the banks of the stream. Our paws keep touching as we strike for fish, and after the a half a dozen such flawed strikes, she pounces at me. We tussle, rolling over and over, before landing heavily in the water. So much for fish for breakfast. Ah well, we could skip breakfast. We'd done it before. And our play in the stream has directed our interests in other directions. W'll be far later in starting back this day than we had originally intended.

As we return, we can see Lydia and Sara plittering about in the garden. They must have realised something was up. It couldn't have anything to do the silly grins that are plastered on our faces. Or the tight grip our hands hold on each others. And certainly not the way we periodically glance at each other. And smile, and giggle. And get lost in looking and lose our footing. Whatever the cause, as soon as we draw near the garden, we are accosted. "What's with you two?" Sara asks. And we glance at each other, and giggle again. Have you ever heard a werewolf giggle? It is one of the most disconcerting sounds in the world. Probably cause you say the wrong thing and one of the wolfsblooded can shift from giggling to tearing out your throat with his teeth in about a second and a half. Vixen recovers first, looks at Lydia and Sara, and explains. "This big lout proposed to me. We are to be married." By this point, I am able to begin speaking again, and confirm. "Aye. We just need to set a date. I'm thinking Imbolc. Or Beltane." Vixen nodded. There were cries of "Thats Wonderful" And, "Oh! I'm so happy for you!" As soon as we told Michael, he insisted on us doing naught bar celebrate for the rest of the day.

Stamford Brig

Congratulations! Today there be a double posting. Intellectual property of myself, Jared G. Juckiewicz, copyright held by the same. Gorm, at Stamford. Don't seem to be up to writing modern stuff at the minute. Nor Accidental Viking. So I be fleshing out his backstory.

Warnings of Violence and Language.

The day was warm, for ‘twas still summer. We had brought the fleet, 300 ships strong, up the river Ouse. The only resistance had been the slaughter at Fulford Ditch. And that had been over quickly. They should have payed us off. Like we told them to. Angevin fools. Now the fleet was at harbour, beached on the banks of the Ouse. A third of the army had been left to watch them, whilst the rest of us took tribute of Yorvik at Stamford Brig.

Twas warm, unseasonably so, especially for this part of Angleland, warm and dry and sunny. Most of the men refused to wear their armour. A few like me ignored the ‘sage advice’ of those who let comfort outweigh common sense. We stood asides Hadrada as the Angevin brought their tribute. Horses, cattle, sheep. Many weights of silver and gold. Fine steel and ironwork. After the slaughter at Furford, they even brought their children for tribute as thralls. Worthless wretches. I would die in battle afore I’d give so much as a fingerswidth of hacksilver. Let alone my own flesh and blood.

So it was that I was stood with Hadrada and the Jarl Tostig when Harold called Godwinson arrived. Tribute was demanded. And Godwinsons response made me laugh. “I’ll gie ye tribute, lad,” He said, even though Harald Hadrada was almost as old as he was. “I’ll gie ye se’en foot o’good Angevin earth. Tae be yours in perpetuity. Ore as much longer as ye be taller than other man!”  I had to laugh. The man had guts. I grinned, baring teeth that were almost fangs, behind the coif that covered my face. Godwinson turned to Tostig next, and spoke again. “Tae ye, I’ve another offer. I’ll gie ye an earldom, should ye turn on Hadrada here…” Tostig shook his head. He would not betray Hadrada. Not after he had been the one to recruit Hadrada for this venture.

As Godwinson and his escort left, I tilted my head towards them, but with a shake of his head, Hadrada, my liege lord, denied me the pursuit. Things could have been different had he done otherwise. It was a few hours later that I tilted my head to the air, sniffing the air. As my nostrils filled with the scent of the approaching army, I turned to Hadrada. “They Come.” I growled, and he turned to me. “What?” He demanded, and I sniffed again, assuring myself of the foes soon to arrive. “Godwinson. Many warriors. They come. And soon.”   As Hadrada and Tostig shook their heads in stunned disbelief, I realised that they didn’t belief Godwinson could have mobilised so soon.

So, I responded in the manner of one who had been a leader of warriors amongst the Varangians. “WITHDRAW!” I roared. “HOLD THE BRIDGE!” As the warriors looked stunned, I tore the Raven banner from the ground, and passed it to a young Huscarl. “TAKE IT!” I snarled at him, and then roared again, “CROSS THE BRIDGE! TO THE RAVEN!”, as I shoved him towards the wooden bridge we were camped at. I glanced around, looking for a specific face. There, one of the few warriors in Maille. I grabbed his shoulder, and growled commands. “Shuck your armour. Get to the boats. Go, Tell Our Warriors, Son Of The North, That Gorm Grendelsbane Holds The Brig At Stamford! FETCH THEM!” As he bent double, his armour rolling of his shoulders, I got to the center of the bridge, and their I stood.

My Mailled Hauberk was stifling, but I was glad of it. The Gambie was already sodden with sweat, but I knew that soon it would be soaked through with other fluids. A feral grin lit my face, not that any could see it. My helm was an antique, steel loops descending from the angled spangenhelm to ward my eyes. Below that a chain coif and ventail protected my neck, and hampered my breathing. Mailled chausses warded my legs, and a great kite shield of linden, with the rampant wolf I held as my heraldry emblazoned on it, warded my back. At my belt hung sword and knife and axe, as they had since the Volga, and a great two-handed crescent axe, the blade almost a foot of curved death, was held loosely in my left. It’s steel-shod end slammed into the oaken boards rhythmically as those warriors I served aside flowed around me.

As the runner set off at the fastest pace he could maintain, for fifteen miles is no sprint, the bulk of the Vikingr present hastened to our camp, to arm and armour as best they could in the few minutes they would have. And whilst they did that, I summoned forth as much of the wolf as I dared. I growled low and deep in my throat. My eyes, hidden by the spectacles on my helm, yellowed. Fangs lengthened, cutting through my lower lip. I could scent my enemy coming, smell my allies forming up behind me. The wood under my feet. I could feel the bridge vibrate with the torrent of water below, and with the steady thudding of my axe-haft upon it.

As the first of the Angevin forces filtered out of the woods, my left foot came forward. I leaned forward and roared in challenge and defiance, my head twisting like that of the bear in a fury.  Godwinson trotted his horse to the foot of the bridge, and addressed me. “Stand Aside Warrior. Or Stand With Your Fellows.” My response was simple. “Here I stand. Naught shall pass.” He wheeled his horse aside, and signalled his champion forward. I stood, moving not a muscle, as the man approached me. He was almost my match in height, truly a giant for the Angevin folk, and close, but not quite as broad. He was armoured as well as I and armed almost the same. As he drew nigh, slowly and carefully, his daneaxe held in a guard, I continued to stand motionless, right up to the point where he began his first swing.

He flipped his axe up, and twirled, swinging it around at head height. As I ducked, he began to drop it, but the haft of mine met his in midair, as the head of mine dropped to the ground. I hooked my head behind his legs, and let the force of his swing add force to my sweep, dropping him to the hard oaken planks. A flip of my axe brought the steel-shod butt into his face, with enough force to shatter bone. I withdrew it, and returned to my original pose, standing straight, the axe held loosely at my side, butt standing on the bridge.

They tried to pepper me with arrows then, but I smelt the glue and the fletchings as they drew, and when they loosed I was ready. My crescent axe spun patterns in the air afore me, faster than the eye could see, catching broadheaded mankillers on the blade, or on the steel ferrules at the ends of the haft. More arrows were batted aside by the solid length of ashwood, or simply avoided by shifts in balance. Their first volley was useless, and I threw my laughter into their faces. With the second volley, those who had missed in the first were able to fix their aim, and I felt the hammerblows as arrows hit my maille, albeit at angles that simply bounced off. Come the third volley, my blood was actually spilt, not fewer than three shafts piercing maille and gambeson and hide. As my blood began to trickle, I readied to charge, only to hear Godwinson order the archers off. Apparently they had too few arrows to waste entire volleys on a single man.

Instead another champion started towards me, twirling paired axes over his wrists. I grinned behind my aventail, and as he rushed forward, howling a warcry, I met him with one of my own. “FENRIR!” I roared at him, spinning my axe up to trap both of his where hafts met heads. As he stopped, his momentum checked, I slammed my head forward, the steel of my helm smashing into his unarmoured brow. As he staggered back, stunned by the blow, I disengaged, and with an underhand swing, split him from groin to navel. The third and fourth warriors to come at me posed barely any greater challenge, and I growled my disappointment at my foes. And they began to come at me in groups.

The first pair came in to close together. Their shields got in each others way, and whilst they were trying to straighten themselves out, my axe licked out, slicing ones skull in half. As the top half of his head slid away, I spun the axe on the backswing. The hook caught around his hapless companions neck, and with the force of the wolfsblooded behind it, dropped him over the side of the bridge. Warrior after warrior came against me. A score fell, skulls staved in, guts spilled out, limbs lopped off. Their sundered corpses were left lying upon the bridge, or thrown over the side, gifts to the river. My axehaft had sundered, and so I had shifted to wielding axe and dagger. Then my other Axe had lost its head.

Finally, the blade on my sword had shivered and shattered, broken to slivers, and so I had been reduced to fighting with dagger and kite shield. Blood streamed from many wounds, leaking from rents in my maille and tears in my gambeson, but I barely felt it. My blood was up, my fury ready. I roared and snarled as more warriors rushed towards me. Knife licked in and out, shield parried wildly, and mind was lost. I knew not but the joy of battle. Not but the glory of shedding blood, of rending and tearing and maiming and slaying. And then suddenly, there were no foes before me. I roared again, challenging, demanding that one step forward to face me.

But none were to come. I began to drift down from my bloodied nirvana, returning to myself. “STEP FORWARD!” I bellowed at them, but there was no response. “WHO WILL FACE ME!” I demanded, but no one stepped forth. Finally I gave up. “ARE THERE NO MEN AMONGST YOU!” I asked of them at the bellow. Still no response. I took a step forward, and felt something cold slide up the inside of my thigh. It was almost a comfort, taken against the burning pain of my wounds, and the broiling heat of the battle and the armour. But only for a second, afore the flaming lance drove up into my flesh beneath the corselet.

Oh, how I howled as that length of steel tore and rent and split inside, and as it ripped out in a gush of bloodied effluvia I staggered, gasping silently for breath. As those warriors I had fought to hold safe till our army was rejoined stared on in horror, I slammed against the side of the bridge. As strength left me, I toppled over, the air whistling past my head, until with a splash, I sank into the river, and in the sudden chill, blackness took me. It was much time afore I knew of the slaughter that met my men. I know not how long the river rolled me down the rock-studded bank, afore I came back to myself, washed up next to the corpse of a slain man. I know not to whom he owed fealty, nor even whom or what had slain him. All I knew was that his flesh was enough to keep me alive, and heal me enough that I was able to move.

I learned later that the Vikingr had been slaughtered almost to a man. Hadrada had been shot down with many arrows, as one slays a boar or a bear brought to bay. The few survivors fell in with Godwinson to fall at Hastings, a battle I was sorry to miss. I myself found my way north, so slowly and painfully, to settle in alongsides a family of Scots. And there I stayed for many a year, until my standing with Andrew Moray and William Wallace led me to have cause to leave great Alba.

Lieutenant Kull Sahib

Ah, for the good old days... A common statement from Gorm I reckon. In this case, the Indian Mutiny, (I think thats what it  be called anyway) back afore Assaye...
Intellectual copyright of myself, Jared G. Juckiewicz. Warnings of Violence and the odd sexual theme. And Bad Language. We are talking Ulfsbluut here after all.

India. Don’t ask me the year, I don’t remember it. I’d been given a command by Arthur Wellesley, who would one day become the Iron Duke of Wellington. A contingent of native cavalry, Marathi hillmen on shaggy little ponies, sturdy, mountainbred beasts, man and horse. Our meeting had been amusing, them and I. I slipped past their sentries, though ‘twas difficult doing. They were alert, watched like hawks. Listened carefully, stayed hidden, bone-still and silent, even in the midst of the army encampment. I had slipped into the tent used by their commander, their Subadar, as a command post. I had not been announced, my presence was unexpected, for whilst they had been informed that a British Officer would be arriving soon, they had not been told who. Or even, when.

So my arrival was greeted by a swing from a cavalry saber. I parried it with my palm, and laughed. “Easy Subadar. I am Lieutenant Coll. I’m told you would be expecting me.” He stepped back, lowering his blade slightly. “I was told to expect a British officer, Sahib. You have orders, Sahib?” he asked, and I grinned. “I do indeed.” I handed him the sheaf of papers, and was surprised to see he was able to read them  himself. Whilst he glanced over them, I spoke. “Your sentries are good. Not as good as I am, but they come damn close. “ He nodded, even as I went on. “You have an emblem?”  I asked, and he paused in the reading, looking up at me to say simply “The Wolf, Sahib.” I laughed again, a hearty sound. “A good omen that. The Wolf is my emblem as well!”

Truth be told, ‘twas a bit more than that. I bore the blood of the Wolf in my veins. I settled in, got introduced to the men, and we set off on a long-range patrol the very next dawn. ‘Twas a style of fighting I was used to, that off the light cavalry. I’d trained in Cavalry operations often in the past. Riding against the Finns, and then again with them as a Hakkapell. I knew what to do, and how to do it. Something that made me a far better commander for the Marathi horsemen than any previous British officers had been. They all thought of all cavalry as one style of troops, and wielded even light horse like the heavy cavalry of northern Europe.

Under me Coll’s Wolves ranged the countryside, harrying rebel troops, raiding what little they had in the way of supply lines. We harried them when they held their ground, pursued them when they fled, cut them down when we caught up to them. Despite orders to the contrary, we lived off the land, returning to Wellesley’s camp but rarely. When we did, we spent much of our time in the recently taken city of Seringapatam. We stuck together, for I had swiftly become favoured by those I commanded. I had taken the time to learn their language, and we ate together, drank together, camped under the same conditions. I even rode the same sort of horse as they did, after our first battle against rebel cavalry.

Then, one day, we were wandering through Seringapatam, the whole troop, a score strong. We were seeking out a certain house, of ill repute but flawless reputation. We had recently come into some prized loot, see, and I had intended to treat my warriors to what could be described as ‘A Good Time’. As such, I was less than pleased when I felt a hand on my belt, at my money pouch. The reflexes of the wolfborn had my hand clamped round a wrist so skinny as to be almost naught bar bone. I dragged the culprit round to where I could see him, and almost had to laugh. ‘Twas a boy of perhaps twelve, but so ill-fed he looked but ten. There was hardly a bone in his body I could not see.

Now, of course, Marathi are not known for the being of sympathetic or compassionate. At least not with those not their own. So it came as no surprise when my warriors started suggesting such things as  taking his hand or his head, or simply throwing him to the dogs. I decided to do things differently, especially when he pleaded to me to let him go. Something about him needing to tend to his sister, to maintain her honour and virtue. Well, I could tolerate that reasoning. “Your name lad.” I growled at him, and he whimpered back “Rao” “Well, Rao.” I said, my voice softening. “Supposing I were to offer you work. Fetching and carrying. And your sister work.” I raised my free handing, stilling his protests even before he voiced it. “As cook. And cleaner. And Laundry Girl. No More.” He nodded, and I bade him take us to her. She was in somewhat better condition than he was, as they had apparently figured their best chance was to have her looking pretty enough for someone to take her as a bride. It hadn’t been working. Well, we set to negotiating. And in the end came to a sum that my warriors thought to be far too high, and I thought to be barely acceptable.

We fed them up, and kept them safe. They stayed at the camp whilst we patrolled, under the protection of various officers who either owed me, or were scared shitless of me. They seemed to enjoy their work, Khladivya and Rao, and certainly enjoyed the security. The one attempt to treat Khladivya’s virtue as negotiable ended in the individuals involved being out of action for weeks, beaten to a pulp by me and my men. Until things came to a head. I know not how long she had been considering it, or why.

But one night, whilst we were in camp, I was unable to sleep. I lay there, in my bedroll in my tent, my mind simple drifting. I was aware of my surroundings, but only lightly, at the edge of my consciousness. So it was that when someone entered my tent, my subconscious decided they were no threat, and left me drifting. It wasn’t until I felt a soft, warm, naked body slide in next to me that I recalled to myself. I sniffed to work out who it was, and as soon as I realised, I moved back, opening some space between us. “You don’t need to do this,” I told her in her own tongue, and she shook her head.

“I want to.” She told me softly, reaching for me, and I nodded, enfolding her in my arms. “Thank you” I whispered to her. We remained bedmates, and happy ones, until shortly before Assaye. She and Rao simply left one day with nary a word. We tried to seek them out, but were recalled to the army before we had a chance to find them, to find out why they left. And after the battle, well, we had been assigned to the same flank as the 74^th Highlanders. After, I was the only of us left, and I was folded into a line regiment, that selfsame 74^th. It wasn’t long before I was ordered out of India, after that.

A Proposal.

More Valkyrien, of a genre that my friend The Redjay and I, alongst with she who is the inspiration for Laure De Bruis, tend to term 'Squee'. The events chronicled here were a long time coming... and will lead to some... interesting... effects. Copyright belongs to myself, Jared G. Juckiewicz

I have been weeks in the planning. And weeks in the preparation. First my scouting as both man and wolf until I found an appropriate place. A grove of aspen on a hillside, next to a babbling brook, its banks littered with wildflowers. Then, digging a depression into the hillside, building a shelter over it of pine and cedar limbs, and lining the inside with soft moss. Concealing a small supply of food, table settings, blankets and firestarting gear next to the shelter, and gathering and covering some dry firewood. And doing it all without drawing attention to myself, or revealing what I was doing. Luckily, I'd been in the habit of long solo hikes and runs since I arrived here, so I was able to do much of the work when I was out, supposedly, on those. I had even set up a few snares alongst a game trail not far from my glade. Last night, I had finally rigged those snares such that they were active. Now, I am guiding Vixen through the forests to the place. She still doesn't know what I intend. Which is all to the good. Although it is difficult to ignore her questions, her entreaties. Wait and see, I tell her. All will be revealed. Patience is a virtue, that last earning a snort and a "Virtuous? Me?" We arrive at the glade, and I see to it that she is comfortable. We build a small fire, and I pile the firewood beside it. Wait here, I tell her, and shift, vanishing off in my Wereform to check my snares. As I check each one, I break it up, so it is no threat to anything. The last one has served its purpose, a large hare dangling from it. Excellent! Good eating, Hare. After disabling the snare, I shift the rest of the way to Wolf, carrying it back in my jaws. I drop it a few feet from Vixen when I return, nudging it towards her with my nose, and then hopping back to sit on my haunches. I look from her, to the hare and back, and she strips out of her hiking gear and shifts to join me. After a moment a female red fox is standing in front of me. She looks at me curiously, and then steps forward, sniffing at the hare and then digging in. She glances up after a moment, seeing that I haven't moved a muscle. Her gaze flits from me to the hare and back in invitation, but I shake my head, and lie down. Waiting for her to finish her meal. When she has, I wander over to where I left my clothes, and reaching into my trouser pocket, pull out a small box with my teeth. I walk back to where she is, and crouch low a few feet from her, letting the box drop onto the grass. My ears go flat back against my head, and my tail rests on the ground as I crawl forward, belly dragging on the grass, and push the box towards her. She steps forward, and hooks the claws on one of forepaws into the bottom of the box. Her fangs catch the top and tilt it open, and there, lying on a satin bed, is a ring of white gold, inlaid with patterns of red and yellow gold according to the mammen style, with a chain of titanium steel running through it. There is no stone, but the ring is beautiful without it. Engraved on the inside of the ring is the inscription w i k s e n  m e d  k a r l e k  g o r m.. Vixen, Med Karlek, Gorm. Vixen, With Love, Gorm.  She looks up at me, her eyes seeking mine, full of hope, questioning. I nod, and those deep yellow eyes glow with love and joy. She steps forward, crouches low, and nuzzles my nose. I stand back up, and rub my muzzle alongst hers, until we are rubbing necks, inhaling the scent of each others ruff. We spend some time trading those caresses that take the place of kisses and hugs amongst those lacking lips and arms, and then I hook the fangs of my lower jaw through the chain, lifting it over her neck. Tomorrow, we will begin planning for the wedding. Or at least, consider planning. For now, we have each other, and that is all that matters. I should, I think, have seen to this long, long ago.

Police!

Yet another Valkyrien tale. Seems someone found that mangled corpse Gorm left in an alley. And there are to be consequences. Warnings of reference to violence and death.

I could tell something was up as I returned to the house. There was a car I didn't recognise sitting in the gravel car. A grey sedan. Couldn't tell much of it or its owners from the smell. It smelled like a car. Asphalt, exhaust fumes, rubber, metal, plastic. Nothing to distinguish it from any other car in a major way. Oh, there were subtle differences, if I needed to follow it close, but nothing to let me name its purpose. So, I wandered on into the house, kicking off my boots in the entry hall. I proceeded to walk through the living room on the way to the kitchen. Michael and Sara were sitting in there, with a pair of official looking, and official smelling men. They looked up when I walked in. And one of the strangers spoke. "Mister..." He checked a sheet of notes, and then continued "Ulfsblutt, I presume?" He asked. "It's Ulfsbluut, actually," I replied, "And aye." My voice stayed level. The man spoke again, "We would like to ask you a few questions, if you've the time." I hefted the string of trout in my hand. "Can it wait until after I've put these away? Afore they drip all over the carpet?" Without waiting for a response, I went through and put them in the fridge, grabbing myself a glass of water before I headed back through. "I'm guessing you be cops, aye?" I asked, voice still level. "Indeed." Came the swift response. So far only one of them had spoken. If they planned on playing good cop, bad cop, they'd be getting short shrift from me. "Well. Ask Your Questions." I instructed them. And they did.

"Is one Miss Lydia Czernobaj your ward?"

"Aye, by the grace of the federal government, I am her Guardian." I stressed that last word. Not only am I Wolfsblooded, I am dominant amongst those who are. To defend those I hold to be mine, and to avenge where necessary, is at once right, duty, and compulsion for me.

"Are you aware of her recent ordeal?" Now, hiding knowledge of it could be useful. But then again, tis easily checked.

"I am. She informed me as we waited for the police to arrive."

"Then you are aware of the investigation into the incident."  I nodded. 'Twas a sore topic that.

"And would you be sorry to hear that one of the prime suspects is dead?"

My response here would be truthful in part...

"Not a whit. Reckon someone shoulda blood-eagled the ones what did it. I'da done it myself if I thought I could get away with it."

That interested them. The one who hadn't spoken yet asked his first question.

"Blood-Eagled?" I shifted into lecture mode. Perhaps when I retire, I can take up a position as a history lecturer. I mean, I saw much of it take place.

"An old Norse means of execution. The one so sentenced would be bound on his belly, and then the skin and muscle would be flayed away from his spine and the backs of his ribs. The ribs would be cracked, probably with a hatchet." Actually, I'd done it myself with my claws, more than once. Many's the Grendel who died with the Blood-Eagle carved on his back. "The lungs would then be pulled out and draped over the back, leaving the victim to suffocate slowly. A gruesome, slow, and painful death." Apparently something of my memories had sunk into my voice, for the quiet one recoiled.

"Enough." His partner instructed. "Where were you last night, between the hours of midnight and two in the morning?" I was asked.

"Here. Asleep." Was my answer. Actually, I'd snuck out the window and legged it into town. I'd got the scent of her assailants off of Lydia, and whilst most of them had managed to remain hidden so far, one of them had not.

"Can anyone vouch for you?"

"Well. Michael here, and Sara, can tell you when I went to bed, and when I got up. I'd like to be able to tell you Vixen could do so, but she took Lydia camping to help get her over the trauma. Girl time, you know?"

Talkative guy nodded. "Vixen?" He asked. And I answered him. "Miss... Kasey... Renard. I just always call her Vixen. A sort of nickname, ya ken?"

Another nod. "And what is your relationship with Miss Renard?" He asked. "Complicated." was my answer."Interesting family you have. Three seperate people, three seperate last names. Why is that?" He asked, although I got the feeling he was just curious. "Well. Vixen... Um... Kasey and I have never married. Never saw the need. And really, all Lydia has of her home is her name. I wouldn't take that from her." Truth, all of it. Especially the last. When Lydia entered this country, she didn't even own the clothes on her back. "If that is everything gentlemen? It's just I could really do with cleaning those fish." I asked politely, and was promptly told that for now, it was. But that they would be back if they had any questions, and not to leave town. Fair enough, I'd planned on staying the rest of the summer anyway. If they wanted me to stay longer than that, they could take it up with Valkyrien.  For now, I had fish to clean. Rather glad they didn't stay to see my prowess with a knife...

Axe-Play

Well. More amusing fun-times from Summer Vacation... have managed to get my Valkyrien tales all sorted out into order... Or at least, the rest of the summer ones, bar one or two I have yet to write.
I don't think there are any warnings, and it belongeth to me, Jared G. Juckiewicz.

It was still light out when Michael and I returned from our expedition. Indeed, the sun had barely begun to descend, marking it as just a little after noon. Sara was plittering about in her garden, and Vixen and Lydia were helping her. Contrary to most expectations, Wolfsblood and Kitsune make good gardeners. Both kindreds have the strength and the dexterity it requires. And rare is the animal that will trespass where our sorts frequent. They looked up as our pickup pulled into the drive, and as we exited we were asked what had happened. See we had given the impression that we meant to spend the entire day, in town, shopping for tools. And knives. Possibly a new rifle for Michael. Fishing gear. You know. Manly things. Well. That plan went awry at our first stop. Which I promptly explained with much chagrin.

See, we’d started at the DIY shop. Just wandering up and down the aisles, at first, looking at tools. Making the odd comment. It wasn’t until we reached the aisle home to such things as hammers, picks, and most importantly, axes, that the trouble began. See, Michael chose that moment to announce that, actually, he was needing a new axe. So we began discussing the various merits of the various sorts. Double-bitted heads, daggered heads, heavy splitting heads, thinner cutting heads. Fiberglass handles as opposed to wood hafts or plastic ones. I personally favour wood myself. A hardwood, for preference. Oak or Ash. Hickory or possibly Maple. Possibly Alder or Poplar, under the right circumstances. I have a lot of experience with axes. We then wound up debating haft length, and materials for the head, and balance. It got a shade on the heated side.

Michael, being as he is, decidedly young, not more than a few decades, was quite taken with the idea of one of the newer axe styles going about. Call it a hand-and-a-half, haft-length wise. Too long to be easily swung one-handed, but not long enough to be worth wielding as a proper two-hander.  With a modern fiberglass haft. The head, with broad, sweeping flanges jutting out just behind the blade (useful for splitting wood, less so for other things), manufactured out of some sort of hardened composite. Well, I took issue with this preference. Perfectly reasonably, too. The weight in that design is off, to my experienced mind. And I demonstrated this. Slipping the cover off the head, and then putting it through a set or practice swings. Twirling it over my wrist, hooking it round over my head, switching it from hand to hand, and from a forehand to a backhanded grip. Spinning and tossing and juggling it. And then I did the same thing with a more traditional sort. And just about decapitated a manager. Had I been less skilled, I’d never have managed to stop the swing before it had sunk into his neck.

We may have been asked to leave after that. And it had kind of put a damper on our shopping day. I reckon, we go back in a few days with an apology, and a promise to never do it again, and things will be fine, after the manager has had a chance to cool down. But Michael was a shade on the embarrassed side. And didn’t take kindly to me growling the whole way out of the store. No one had been in any danger. I don’t kill unless I intend to. I don’t maim unless I intend to. But no one listened, and so we returned. Poor Lydia. Sara abandoned her to calm Michael down. And Vixen abandoned her to hear my side of the story. And to laugh at me. To top it all off, I didn’t even manage to prove my point. I had the skill necessary to compensate for the altered balance and heft.  

Horse Play

Well, for Valkyrien, if not yet for me, It's effectively summer vacation time... and what better time for a little bit of, well, Horse Play...

Intellectual Property of Myself, Jared G. Juckiewicz.

Warnings of Violence and Language. And I wish to point out that neither Vixen nor Gorm mean any of the insults they are lobbing about, and that I, personally, take no issue with the followers of any religion.

The scent of Horse, and of Leather, and of Steel fills my nostrils. Hoofbeats sound beneath me, and behind and slightly aside. There is a slight swish from that same direction, and I lean forward, hugging myself to the neck of my small horse, barely larger than a pony, as a sabre goes whistling overhead. The great, black, almost destrier, gallops ahead, its plate armoured rider bringing the blade back into a guard. I dig my knees into my mounts side, roaring my warcry. "HAAKA PAALE" I roar, my cutlass sliding out of its sheath. "HAAKA PAALE POHJAN POIKA!" Hack On, Hack Them Down, Northern Boy. The rider on the black wheels, coming back at me, and I wait till we draw close. At the last moment, I kneel my steed to the right, cutting across the front of the black. I toss my cutlass from my left to my right, and lash out with a vicious cut at the riders leg. It is parried, but barely, and met by a growled "Damned Haccapaelitorum". We trade blows, wheeling our mounts, and in frustration I snarl at the Cuirassier. "Fucking Papists!" I snarl, for the rider bears the colours of Pappenheims Black Cuirassiers, some of the more vicious Catholic cavalry. The cuirassier pulls away, making use of the black warhorses longer legs. As the distance opens I here the parting comment. "You Wish!" she laughs at me, and I laugh back. "You Wait, Milady!" I yell back at here, wheeling my mount. Why I am doing this when I am meant to be resting and recuperating may take some explaining. See, after the last op, everyone involved was given the summer off, Medical Leave, officially. Vixen and I came to stay with Michael and Sara, old friends of mine. They own a ranch. Michael is a Historian, and a Reenactor. Sara is also a reenactor, and a Vet by trade. They breed horses back, trying to recover historic breeds. Michael has managed to produce something similar to a Destrier. Sara favours Hobby Horses, Finnhorses, and their antecedents. War ponies, effectively. Well, right after we showed up, a few weeks before the end of the school year, Michaels eldest boy mentioned his project for show and tell in his history class had gotten damaged. They were studying Medieval Europe. Late medieval, specifically, or early post medieval. Whichever period the Seventeenth century fell into. The Thirty Years War, to be precise. And it just happens that I trained as the Hakkapell I am pretending to be. And that Vixen served as one of Pappenheims Black Cuirassiers, under Johann Tserclaes, Count Tilly. So we obtained replicas of the gear we used to wear, most of it sent up from Valkyrien HQ by next-day courier service. And young Johnnie got to show his class Cavalrymen from two of the factions involved. Of course, after that, we got to reliving the old days for fun. But I digress. Milady is wheeling her horse, and I knee mine forward. Her arm crooks, her wrist twisting and backhanding her sabre, resting it along the length of her forearm. Her elbow flashes, blossoming fire, and there sounds a loud CRACK!. Fire blossoms in my shoulder. I glance down at it, and see the hole in my leather jerkin, blood seeping from the edges. As she wheels away, I reach up with my free hand and feel into the hole. I draw forth a large lump of bload-coated lead. "BITCH SHOT ME!" I yell. Accurate. Not exactly polite. She wheels back towards me. "Not Bitch!" She yells back. "Vixen!". I laugh. "Fair enough" I retort, spurring into a charge (without spurs, I wish to point out), my blade swinging complicated figures in the air. We clash, blades slamming into each other. I strike and parry, making fancy flourishes. Keeping her attention on the cutlass in my hand. My free hand creeps down to my waist, wrapping round the head of the axe hanging there. It draws the axe free enough to get the hand wrapped round the haft, and then I make my move. Hooking her blade betwixt mine and it's guard, I shift my balance, and the pressure on my legs. My mount rears, and I lean forward to keep my balance. On its two hind legs, it pivots, bringing me around. My sword hand twists over my head, keeping her blade locked, don't ask me how. The axe comes out, extends in my grip, and the flat of the head, punches into Vixen's midriff, just below her cuirass. As she gasps, and doubles over, I slide my feet out of my stirrups, and throw myself at her. My weight, coming when she is already off-balance from the axe blow, knocks her off her horse, and I land atop her on the ground. I flip up the visor of her bascinet and stare into her eyes. Just for a second like. Right before I steal a kiss, hop back to my feet, and lope over to my horse. "Well, come on then" I call back. "What are you waiting for?" As she picks herself up. She begins to run in my direction, but I've already caught up to my little pony. I grab it's mane, and hop back into the saddle, whistling it into a run. As she turns to head over to where her horse, reasonably trained beast that it is, is standing, I come up behind her, and smack her rump with the flat of my sword. A little pressure from my knee, and my little Finnhorse sidesteps out of the way of her grab for me. "Now, Now, not my fault you were lying down on the job." I tell her, laughing and wheeling off. She mounts off, and with a determined grin, sets off after me.